The Lovely Weakness
by MsOutAndAbout
Summary: Sherlock is coming apart at the seams, and it's all John's fault. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

"Useless," Sherlock snarled from the couch.

"What was that?" asked John.

"Nothing," said Sherlock, snapping the laptop shut and tossing it on the floor with unnecessary force.

It was clearly a lie, but Sherlock typically lied for good reason. John decided he was happier not knowing what Sherlock had been looking up. He went back to the (throughly disappointing) newspaper. Not a single murder - not human, anyway. A dog had gotten hit on the highway yesterday, but even John thought that was boring.

* * *

Sherlock came crashing into the flat. John nearly spilled his mug of tea.

Sherlock never crashed anywhere. He stomped, he snuck, he sauntered, but crashing was not in his repertoire. He definitely crashed his way in today, though. John heard the key fumble in the lock, almost snapping off before catching. The front door flew open and slammed against the opposing wall hard enough to close it again. Uneven footsteps on the stairs, then the door to 221B opened, leaving dent in the drywall opposite, as Sherlock stood in the doorway and kicked his shoes across the room with enough force to throw him off his balance. He tumbled forward and caught himself on his elbows, then growled at the floor as though it had deeply offended him. He then took to walking back and forth across the room, almost running, really, pausing only to dump stacks of paper from tabletops to floors.

Sherlock was in rough shape. His hair was so tangled it stood out from his skull like dandelion fluff, and his clothes were ripped and missing buttons and zippers. They were the same clothes he had been wearing the day before, so he hadn't slept all night, but John had been able to tell that already - he hadn't come home last night, after all.

"What happened to you?" The question was out of John's mouth before he could stop it.

Sherlock just waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing, a scanner," he snapped.

"Okay." John paused, opened his mouth, then closed it again. His throat was dry. He took a sip of tea and tried again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock whirled around, faster than usual in sock feet, and pinned John to the wall with a glare. "What?"

"What's the matter with you?" The words came out more bluntly than he had expected, but Sherlock only snarled again and resumed his pacing.

"It isn't what's wrong with me, it's what's wrong with the entire scientific world. Failing after failing. I am in awe at the sheer number of absolute idiots in the world."

John almost laughed. "And what's wrong with the entire scientific world?"

"Not one researcher, John! Not one! Anywhere! Not even using Mycroft's security clearance, which was not bloody easy to steal and proved to be totally useless!"

"Not one researcher doing what?"

"Asking the right questions, John! It's all here's what happens and segments of brain and effects of dopamine and norepinephrine. That's all well and fine for the diagnosis stage, but nobody cares about how or why or how to make it happen! There's no cure! No treatment! No nothing!"

"How to make what happen? Sherlock, are you sick?"

Sherlock suddenly stopped short. He turned to glare at John again, before stalking off to his room and striking up a chorus of crashing glass.

So much for those new test tubes Sherlock had ordered. John sighed as he went down to make sure the front door was closed. It wasn't quite, and John noticed as he closed it that Sherlock had left the key in the lock. John took it out and wondered why he had been using the spare key.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes."

"Yes?"

"There has been a breach of security. Yesterday, Sherlock Holmes used your security clearance to gain access to the experiments being done in three of the top organizations studying human psychology and brain development."

"Ah. And which experiments were targeted?"

"The Effects of Dopamine and Norepinephrine on the Human Brain; Neuroimaging of the Brain's Emotional Centres, focus on Affection, Guilt, and Nervousness; Chemical Interactions Forming Complex Emotions, focus on Affection, Empathy and Happiness; Combination of Emotional States Typically Referred to as Love; and Long Term Psychological Effects of Love."

"And after gaining access to the results of these studies?"

"Sherlock Holmes then broke into Saint Joseph's Hospital and put himself through the CTG scanner before attempting to put himself through the MRI scanner."

"Attempting?"

"He was quite agitated, and apparently forgot about the magnetic aspect of the Magnetic Resonance Imaging scan, as well as the keys, zippers, buttons and various other metal objets on his person at the time. He got stuck inside the machine, and was forced to wait until the security guard found him at around four o'clock this morning. He was then brought in for questioning by Detective-Inspector Lestrade and released with a warning. He is currently at his residence in 221B Baker Street."

"Excellent. Apologize formally to Saint Joseph's on my brother's behalf, and offer to pay in full for any damage done to either of the machines, as well as any other property that may have been damaged. Ensure my security clearance is out of his hands, and arrange for Detective Inspector Lestrade to have an extra two weeks of vacation time."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Sherlock was being as insufferable as ever.

This would normally have been comforting to John, but Sherlock was acting the same way he did on a case, and there was no case, as far as John could see. He was fairly certain that Sherlock hadn't slept for four days straight, though, since John had walked out of his room one morning to find the detective asleep on the staircase leading to the upstairs bedroom. He ate absolutely nothing if left alone, and had actually fainted after three days of no sleep and no food. Sherlock would eat anything John made for him, though, so the amount of takeaways fell off significantly and John slowly became a much better cook (this process was made easier by the fact that Sherlock did eat anything John made, including the solid brick of spaghetti that they had had to chisel off the bottom of the pot, and then cut with steak knives to eat). John had tried to get Sherlock to sleep, too, but Sherlock only pretended to sleep as long as John was watching him, and then got up again. John sat watching for three hours once, hoping Sherlock would fall asleep, but as soon as he had left the room Sherlock was up again. He gave up on trying to get Sherlock to sleep after that.

Sherlock had also almost completely quit speaking. He only answered direct questions, and with the most succinct answer possible. He was also playing his violin a lot, so often that John thought he would have to replace his bow soon, but he played only one song, the same one, over and over. Sherlock never did that; more often than not, it took considerable coaxing to convince him to play a proper song at all.

John used to like Moonlight Sonata, because it reminded him of Sherlock, but four days of repetition had cured him of the preference.

* * *

John liked Moonlight Sonata. Sherlock knew that much. Now the only question was why.

Sherlock played Moonlight Sonata again and again, until he could play without thinking about the notes or his fingers, but he still couldn't figure out what John heard in the notes to make him prefer that song to all the others.

He played it anyway. It was imperative that he figure it out. If he could figure out why John liked this song more than other songs, maybe it would give him things to introduce into his own character that would ensure John liked him more than other people.

Okay, it was a long shot, but it was the only lead he had. His research had effectively proved that he was in love with John, and after the disaster with the MRI machine he had given up on finding a cure. The CAT scan hadn't given him anything conclusive to work with, anyway.

He had to work quickly, too. It was annoying to not be able to think out loud, but John couldn't find out what he was thinking about. He was already suspicious about Sherlock's repeated Beethoven performances.

Sherlock was also beginning to feel oddly as though he were coming apart at the seams. He had noticed new oddities, small spots of insanity, popping up within him. He didn't eat or sleep, as per his usual routine with cases, but this was not a usual case and was taking him an extraordinarily long time. He had passed out after three days, and it had been worth it when John had cooked him a batch of (oily, oversalted) chicken soup. He didn't want to eat, the food wasn't even any good, but John had cooked it. Sherlock couldn't resist eating the soup or anything else John cooked, a weakness he deeply regretted the first time John made spaghetti.

Sleeping was the worst. He didn't sleep, of course, but had taken to watching John sleep from the steps leading up to his room, a habit which had gone undetected until he had somehow managed to fall asleep there (he had been thinking about what it would be like to sleep with John, not have sex but to actually sleep, under warm blankets with his arms wrapped around John, matching his breaths to John's deep peaceful ones and letting them carry him away). John had attempted to force him to sleep a few times, but Sherlock couldn't very well be expected to relax, not with John sitting there watching him. He was aware of his own breaths, and John's, every movement in the room, even everything going on outside the window, and there was no way he could fall asleep.

Coming apart at the seams, truly.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was a dead man.

Not literally, of course, but he might as well have been. Those small spots of insanity had been cropping up more and more frequently, along with some rather large spots, until it was a good day when he could think straight at all. For three days straight now he had been lying on the couch with Moonlight Sonata playing in his head on a loop. He still played it on his violin sometimes, hoping to wring something new from hearing the notes again, but it was hopeless.

That was a fairly good day, too. The worst days were when John left the flat for one reason or another. Sherlock had to begin putting his phone in difficult to reach places whenever John was gone, in a thin attempt to keep himself from calling Mycroft and demanding access to the CCTV footage. He couldn't allow himself to do that; Mycroft had undoubtedly heard about the experiments he had accessed and had guessed what was going on, and he would find a way to exploit that knowledge without Sherlock's help.

* * *

John had finally had enough when he sat down on the couch, on top of Sherlock's bony feet. Sherlock had been lying there all day with a line of five nicotine patches going up his arm. He had attempted to add a sixth, but John had wrestled the box away from him, saying that if he needed six nicotine patches it was probably healthier to just smoke the damn cigarettes.

"All right," John said, "What's going on with you?"

Sherlock scowled. "Nothing."

"That's your favorite word these days."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Probably because nothing's going on."

"Oh, yeah? Is that why you're trying to poison yourself with nicotine patches?"

"Dramatic. You can't poison yourself with these." Sherlock didn't actually know whether or not that was true. It would make an interesting experiment, but one that required a live body willing to be poisoned - those were tough to come by.

"Oh, come on! You're obviously thinking about something, and normally when you are you never shut up. You've barely spoken a word for a week, and you've only slept twice, both times on the stairs. Out with it."

"Out with what?"

"With whatever's been on your mind for the past week!"

"Nothing's been on my mind for the past week! Are you being deliberately obtuse? Because I doubt anyone with a medical degree could actually be as idiotic as you are acting."

John sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "You know, something odd happened to me yesterday."

This beginning was unexpected enough to pull Sherlock partially out of his sulk. He pulled his feet out from under John and sat up, hugging his knees to his chest. John didn't continue.

"Well?" Sherlock finally prompted.

"Do you remember how I picked up a shift at the clinic yesterday?" Sherlock did. He had hidden his phone in the bag of sugar on the top shelf in the kitchen, and some of the keys still crunched when he pressed them. "Well, one of the patients I saw had hearing loss, was imbalanced, and had only come in because she had had a seizure the day before. So guess what I did?"

Sherlock just scowled.

"I sent her to Saint Joseph's to get an MRI scan."

"So?"

"So they couldn't do it. Someone damaged the machine and they've been trying to fix it for days now. But the strange part is the things they've been finding inside the machine."

Sherlock looked a bit ill. "What have they found?"

"So far? Three buttons, a zipper pull, and a set of keys with 221B engraved on one of them."

"Coincidence."

"A rather amazing one, considering you've been using the spare since the night the machine was damaged."

Sherlock ground his teeth together. Why, why had Mrs. Hudson engraved those bloody keys?

"So," John continued, "since I'm assuming the results of your scan didn't come through, maybe you could just tell me what's going on in your head? And if you say nothing, I promise I will hang you from the ceiling by your toenails."

"There's a gruesome little party trick. Where did you learn that?"

"Filch."

"Who?"

"Never mind! Just tell me what's going on!"

Sherlock sighed. "John, why do you like Moonlight Sonata?"

John blinked at him. "What?"

"Moonlight Sonata, John! Why that and not The Nutcracker or Vivaldi or rap music?"

John started to giggle a bit, but soon it turned into absolute peals of laughter. He expected Sherlock to sulk again, but his face just went a bit funny - as though John were simultaneously tickling him and setting him on fire.

"For God's sake, is that what you've been doing for the past week?"

Sherlock just stared. John tried to come up with a lie, and Sherlock glared at him.

"If you lie to me, so help me God, John."

John heaved a sigh. "Fine. I like it, or used to, anyway, before I heard it a hundred times in a row, because it, well," the tips of his ears and nose went a bit red here, "it just reminds me of you a bit."

Sherlock sat frozen. John stood up, satisfied that he had gotten all he could out of the detective for the day.

"All right, what do you want for dinner?"

"Nothing."

"I'll make a stir fry."

* * *

"Your keys back, Sherlock."

"I doubt you came all the way here just to return my keys, Mycroft. What do you want?"

"Can't I visit my little brother?"

"Preferably not, no. Are you quite through?"

"I was just wondering when you intended to make your feelings for John known to the man."

"Piss off."

"Charming. But you can't blame me for being a bit impatient, after all, you have done nothing for the past seven days but lie on the couch and snap at him. Do you honestly believe that to be aiding your cause?"

"What cause?"

"You will have to tell him sooner or later."

"Tell him what, exactly?"

"Oh, don't pretend to be stupid, it doesn't suit you. Anybody can see that you're in love with John."

"So what if I am? That's exactly why he shouldn't know. He won't feel the same way, he couldn't, and it will make him feel awkward, or guilty, or something, and things will just get worse. I love John, and he doesn't love me, and that's the end of it, now please leave."

Mycroft tilted his head, telling Sherlock that he'd missed something patently obvious. When Sherlock turned around, he realized what it was.

He'd missed John, who was coming back to the flat after going out for groceries, and was then standing in the doorway looking as though somebody had given him an electric shock.

"Well gentlemen, I'll be off. Lovely visiting with you, Sherlock."

* * *

John was in shock.

He had never before heard Sherlock use the word love, in any context. The closest he had ever come was a sarcastic 'Lovely' tossed out in response to something or other, but nothing comparable to hearing Sherlock say he loved him.

John couldn't believe it. He couldn't breathe, or think, or do anything other than attempt to remain upright rather than becoming a heap on the floor. He didn't know how long he stood in the doorway like that, but eventually he realized that he would need to get out for a bit, get some fresh air, and remember how to breathe again. There was a burning feeling in his chest that was most likely due to the fact that he was taking in perhaps a quarter of the air he needed.

He dropped the groceries on the floor, hearing the eggs smash underneath the milk carton, raised his arm to grab his coat before realizing he was still wearing it, and then climbed down the stairs and into the evening air.

Once he was outside, a grin lit up his face. He felt as though he were one of those dolls that popped up around halloween, with maniacal grins splitting their faces in two, but he couldn't stop himself.

Sherlock, his brilliant, amazing, difficult-and-completely-worth-it Sherlock loved him, of all people. John, who was nobody brilliant or remarkable, just another veteran with a small pension and too much education to still need a flatmate, but Sherlock loved him anyway.

John felt as though he could sprout wings and take off.

* * *

Sherlock hated his brother.

He also hated groceries, doorways, talking, Moonlight Sonata, and John.

That was a lie. He didn't hate John. He just wished he did, because it would make things so much easier. If he hated John, he could just brush him aside, live on his own or with some hopelessly dull flatmate, and go about his (not so) merry business of examining crime scenes and performing experiments on parts of dead bodies. But instead he got John, who called Sherlock brilliant instead of odd, and who smiled and walked towards him instead of turning the other way, and what choice did Sherlock have but to fall in love with him?

And now John had found out, and he had just dropped the groceries on the spot and almost run from the flat. Sherlock had done his best to clean up, salvaged what he could from the store bags (a slightly crushed carton of milk, half a loaf of bread, some bruised apples and one very lucky jar of pasta sauce) and threw the rest away (a dozen crushed eggs and some packets of yogurt that had exploded). Then he had locked himself in his room and started pacing it like a caged animal. He had ruined everything. It would have been far better to be able to live with John as a friend, to scrape by on bad cooking and the vague hope that something could, maybe, have come someday if only Sherlock were a little different, a little more to John's liking, than to be trapped here all alone, knowing that John knew and that it wasn't what he wanted, it would never be what he wanted.

Love was an awfully stupid emotion. Everyone chased after it as though it gave one wings, but Sherlock remained firmly grounded. Love wasn't lifting him up, it was steadily ripping apart all stitches and seams that had kept him together, and soon he would be nothing but a pile of scraps.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Sorry about this! I couldn't resist! Next chapter should be out a bit faster, life got crazy this week..._

* * *

It was too easy.

Sherlock bounded about London with his little pet, pretending to be so smart, so terribly clever, but God was he ever stupid. That was the truth of it. And this time, this time he had really outdone himself.

He was inside, all alone, locked in his room, brooding, while John was wandering the streets, equally alone, but looking like he'd just won the goddamn lottery. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened, but luckily, Jim Moriarty was a genius anyway. To top it all off, Mycroft was altogether too pleased with his work that day and had snuck off to cheat on his diet, so he wouldn't be watching the cameras. Jim supposed he deserved it. No commonwealth could ever be half as difficult to control as Sherlock.

Manipulation, however, was very different from control, and while it took a genius and a team of government officials to control Sherlock, any idiot could manipulate him (case in point: John Watson manipulated him all the time). It would seem that Jim was full of unneeded genius.

And God, it was too easy, way too easy, to pull up alongside John in a black car that matched Mycroft's, to swing the door open and let an umbrella and the fabric of an expensive suit peek out, and then John, oh that lovable idiot, he just climbed right on in and closed the door all by himself.

The locks snapped shut just as John realized that the man sitting in front of him had far too much stubble and was far too small - both vertically and horizontally - to ever be mistaken for Mycroft.

"Hello, John, love," Jim cooed. "Don't pull at the door handle like that, it won't get you anywhere and it's terribly annoying."

The car sped around the corner, unnoticed, perfectly anonymous with a forged license plate, going past a hundred witnesses who wouldn't remember a thing.

* * *

John had been out a terribly long time. Surely three hours was enough to think about whatever it was John was thinking about? What was taking him so long?

Sherlock felt a bit sick. What if he wasn't coming back? He certainly had more than enough friends to stay with for a night, or a week, or even until he found a new flat. Or worse, a new flatmate, one who wasn't hopelessly in love with him.

No, that was impossible. Sherlock knew that the best John could hope for was a flatmate who just didn't tell him that he was hopelessly in love with him. Another Sherlock, one who didn't bugger things up like this one had.

But he would have to come back, wouldn't he? For clothes and such? Either tonight or tomorrow, he would need a change of clothes, and John didn't like to shop. He wouldn't go to the trouble of buying a whole new outfit just because he was embarrassed (or whatever it was he was feeling; Sherlock was still unused to his own strong feelings, he was certainly in no position to gauge other people's). So he would have to come himself and give Sherlock a chance to explain himself (how? It was hopeless), or he would have to send somebody who knew where he was staying to pick up some things for him (not all his things - please God not all his things).

Sherlock heaved his mattress up with some effort and got his phone out from underneath. There were now two people he had to keep himself from calling, Mycroft and John, and two more hours had passed. Five hours since John left, then.

He decided to call Mycroft. He couldn't call John, obviously, but he thought Mycroft owed him after this morning's disaster. That seemed to be his life lately, disaster after disaster.

"Hello?"

"I need the CCTV footage. John still isn't home."

A long pause, then, "Very well. It's being sent to your laptop. And Sherlock, I do apologize if what happened this morning has caused you any distress."

Sherlock snorted and hung up.

* * *

Sherlock was so angry that he didn't know what to do with himself. It was all he could do to bring himself to press the right keys on his phone, and when he finally got Mycroft's number dialed, he noticed that he was shaking.

"You again?"

"Yes, me again, you absolute bastard! When were you going to tell me? I have the footage, you had to have known I would find out!"

"Find what out?"

"That John was with you!"

"That's rather remarkable. You're so seldom wrong."

"And I'm not wrong now, you pompous arse."

"If you are correct, how is it that John is not with me?"

Sherlock pitched his voice into a high, mocking tone. "If John is not with you, how is it that the CCTV footage shows him getting into your car? I know it was yours, Mycroft, it was your license plate."

The silence at the other end of the line was interminable. Finally, Mycroft spoke again. His voice was a little higher than usual.

"I haven't sent a car out since this morning, when I came to visit you. He's not with me. I promise, Sherlock."

Sherlock hung up the phone. He felt sick again. Mycroft hadn't promised him anything since he was 10, and being regularly beaten up by a group of boys at his school, all of whom had mysteriously been made to transfer.

Mycroft never broke promises. Mainly because he never made them, but the point remained. John was not with Mycroft, and he was not with any of his other friends; he had been whisked away, on a busy street in the middle of the day.

This time it took Sherlock three tries to get John's number right, he was shaking so badly.

* * *

John's phone started ringing.

"Well answer it," Jim sneered.

"H-hello?"

"John," Sherlock gasped. Oh God, had Sherlock always said John's name like that? How had he missed it? "Where are you?"

Jim held up an open notebook. I'm fine, just need some time to think. See you tomorrow morning, okay? was scrawled across it, above a doodle of a stick figure talking on the phone, saying 'Jim's here' and getting killed in around ten different ways.

John swallowed. "I'm fine," he parroted into the phone. "Just need some time to think. See you tomorrow morning, okay?"

"John? What's going on? Who's car did you get into?"

Jim made a cutting motion in front of his throat. Goodbye, he mouthed. "Goodbye, Sherlock," John said, giving the words weight, making them heavy and sad and hoping Sherlock would understand. Jim did, at least - he scowled as John dawdled, taking as much time as possible to pull the phone away and hit the call end button. His phone started ringing again almost immediately.

"Time to turn that off, don't you think?" John complied, then put his phone in Jim's outstretched hand. He was glad that he'd managed to think up a relatively clever password - 4234. GCEG. The first four notes of Moonlight Sonata.

* * *

Nothing made sense.

Why did John do that? John wouldn't do that. John wouldn't promise to see him as soon as tomorrow morning (soon? it was an eternity) and then give his goodbye so much weight, make it sound as though he were never coming back, ever.

Sherlock had a plan. He always had a plan. It wouldn't be difficult to find John. He had followed the black car on the CCTV footage until it was out of London, leaving on the M1, but no cities or towns along the M1 had anyplace suitable for hiding a hostage except for old, empty warehouses. John was clearly not in a warehouse - his voice hadn't echoed when he spoke to Sherlock on the phone.

So, a house. Not house in a town, where escaping was easy and there was lots of background noise during phone calls, but country house. Country houses were spaced far enough apart that getting Mycroft to track John's cell phone would allow them to find the correct house. Too easy.

But did John want Sherlock to find him? Maybe John was only coming back tomorrow morning to get his clothes, and then leaving again? Maybe that sad, final goodbye was the truth, and the rest just a happy front John put on, to keep Sherlock from getting too upset? That theory made the most sense, the only other theory being that John had been kidnapped and was being forced to say things into the phone.

Oh God, what if John had been kidnapped? What if he was locked in someone's basement, starving to death right now?

Sherlock felt sick. He would find John, he decided, and if John was alright and told him to bugger off and never call again, that was what he would do, but he had to know that John was okay before he did. He opened his phone and saw that Mycroft had already texted Sherlock the address, then grabbed his coat and left on the most expensive taxi ride ever. There was no time to mess about with trains.

* * *

"When do you think he'll snap?"

John looked up. "What?"

"Sherlock," Jim continued in his same casual tone, as though they were discussing the weather. "How long do you think he'll last before tracking you down? I did make it shockingly easy for him, you know. He could have been here five minutes after we were. He's not here because he's decided not to come."

"Why make it so easy for him?"

Jim barked out a laugh. "My dear man, you don't think I actually enjoy your company, do you? No, no, no, I want Sherlock to come out and play, and you're just so good at convincing him to do stupid things. You really are."

"What do you want from him, then? He'll try to solve whatever case you create, whether or not you have me here."

Jim sighed. "You poor stupid man, it's not about the cases. It's about the fact that Sherlock and I are the same. We're two halves of a whole - exactly the same, only opposite. Ying and Yang. Salt and pepper. Peanut butter and jelly. We're meant to be together, John, and I want Sherlock and I to be together, and I will not stand some-" he looked John up and down, as though searching for the proper word to describe something particularly disgusting, "-interloper coming in and preventing me from getting what I want." He bent close and whispered in John's ear. "Because I always, always get what I want, darling."

Here the front door to the house flew open, left a dent in the drywall opposite and revealed a very angry Sherlock standing on the step. John wondered vaguely if this was going to be Sherlock's new way of opening doors all the time. He had to admit, it had considerable impact.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hoo-boy, do I ever have some apologizing to do._

_Firstly, many sincerely, endless, heartfelt apologies and thanks to my readers, reviewers, followers and favoriters, who are still reading this despite the fact that I suck. The only real excuse for not updating so long is the usual university/sports/work/friends/family tangle mixed in with a wedding, an interment, getting sick, getting robbed and getting a new pet, all of which came together to create one giant month full o' craziness. But considering that my life is a gong show 95% of the time, it's a pretty thin excuse._

_Anyway, I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and I promise the next will be up a week from now! ~xoxo_

_Oh! Oh! And also! **Warnings for swearing in this chapter! Also mentions of drug use and mild violence.**_

* * *

Sherlock froze in the doorway.

If John hadn't been handcuffed to the sofa, he would have laughed. It was an odd sort of picture, Sherlock standing in the doorway with his hand on either side of the frame, wide-eyed and wild, and utterly frozen, but here. Here for him. John wanted to laugh from the pure joy of it, wanted to jump up and throw his arms around Sherlock's neck and find out what his shampoo smelled like and have them both dissolve into laughter.

Sherlock barely glanced at him before his gaze locked on to Moriarty, and something in him seemed to deflate. His hands slid down to his sides. He was ghostly pale, almost translucent. His eyes were huge and sad.

Moriarty grinned, bigger and wider even than John's had been in the street, but it was perverse, a bitter mockery of happiness.

Sherlock still didn't move. "Jim?"

"Sherl, babe. So good to see you again."

John thought he might be sick as he watched Sherlock's eyes well with tears.

* * *

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sherlock had been frantic. All day, he couldn't even hope to rally a lucid thought. It had been a miracle that he had found the place at all, but to see this there was more than he could handle.

Jim and John. Side by side on the sofa, John handcuffed with a bruise on his cheek, Jim sipping tea.

Past and future, juxtaposed, and for a moment Sherlock saw, really saw his entire life, past and future, laid out in front of him.

It made him sick. His arms fell to his sides like stones.

Jim was there, as casually as possible, the past he couldn't ever hope to escape. They had met in university before both dropping out to support a mutual cocaine habit, which eventually turned into living together in a shitbox of a one room flat. They never went out, never saw the need to when Jim had convinced their dealer to make deliveries and they had freed themselves from mundane needs like food. They had held no interest in a world that had no interest in them. Sherlock hadn't stepped foot outside in weeks when Jim flew into an especially bad rage and smashed their one remaining dinner plate over Sherlock's head. Concussed, high, and bleeding profusely with no understanding of what had sparked Jim's temper, Sherlock had panicked and dissolved into big, ugly, gasping sobs. Jim had turned around and sneered.

"What, you think I care about a broken piece of shit like you? Look at you. You've been a crackhead for months and your own parents couldn't give less of a fuck."

Broken, blubbering, and bleeding, Sherlock stumbled out into the street to a pay phone, where he dialed the real emergency number, the one he swore he would never dial again after moving all the way to Ireland for university.

He didn't say anything. He just sobbed into the phone for an hour, until Mycroft arrived, put the phone back on its cradle, and led Sherlock to a cab that whisked him off to the hospital, then to detox, then back to England for rehab. Months had passed in the clinic. Other patients got phone calls, emails, visitors. Not Sherlock. Sherlock left rehab clean, with a deep understanding of how indelibly, ruthlessly, hopelessly alone he was in the world, and how this was a very good thing. Relationships led to nothing good. He had seen many end in murder. His relationship with Jim left him in need of medical attention. His relationship with his family had dissolved into silence. Relationships were endless battlegrounds with misery at the end, and they were far, far below him.

Until he had found himself in the unfortunate position of having to decide between taking boring cases (never) and finding a flatmate (slightly less horrific). He had sent Mike Stamford out to do the legwork - the man was a hopeless matchmaker, and he knew quite a few people. If anyone else mentioned living expense to him, he would do some preliminary sorting and (hopefully) bring anyone not terribly stupid right to Sherlock. One flatmate, hand-delivered with minimal work done by Sherlock Holmes.

It worked better than Sherlock had expected it to. Mike returned with a prospective flatmate that day, and he seemed like a good fit. An army doctor wouldn't be opposed to body parts, so no need to mention those. He also may prove useful when Sherlock got hurt on a case. Proud, quiet, stubborn, and badly in need of money. He passed all of Sherlock's tests and moved in. Easy as that.

Until Sherlock had gone and done something incredibly stupid by falling in love with him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!

John was the future that Sherlock desperately wanted and would never have. John was peace and kindness and laughter and hot mugs of tea, practiced fingers bandaging cuts and burns, easy smiles, the soothing sounds of crap television and pots clattering on the stove. John was eating, John was going out, John had a temper but Sherlock always knew what sparked it. John was safety and bravery and love.

You think I would care about a broken piece of shit like you?

He had thought that, once, but he wasn't stupid enough to make that mistake again. So he looked up towards his life, the only life he could have.

"Jim?"

"Sherl, babe. So good to see you again."

Sherlock hated being called Sherl. His eyes welled up.

He had been so close, too. So close to John before he had chased him away, so close before he finally demanded too much.

So close.

* * *

Sherlock had gone so far away. It scared John. He had retreated somewhere into his own mind, and Moriarty was right there with him but John had been left behind.

And he looked so lost. So lost and scared and broken, and it broke John's heart. He would do whatever Sherlock asked as long as Sherlock stood up straight, smiled, called someone an idiot, anything but this quiet, sad resignation.

Sherlock didn't ask him for anything.

Moriarty stood up, crossed the room, brushed his fingers across Sherlock's jaw. John bit his tongue until he could taste blood.

"Baby," Jim whispered to Sherlock, "I've missed you. Nobody on earth for us but each other, am I right?"

"I've been getting along fairly well with John." The words were right, but the statement was all wrong. It rasped out with no conviction, sounding like a lie even when John knew it was true.

Moriarty didn't even dignify it with a response. He just turned back to John and pressed a button on the side of the handcuffs. They sprung open, fake, leaving John free and feeling like an idiot.

"Off you go, then, pet," Jim sneered. "See you never."

Sherlock just stood there, looking for all the world like a man sentenced to death, and suddenly John understood. This wasn't a rescue; it was an exchange. Sherlock for John.

Well, that simply wasn't acceptable. Luckily, John was much better at rescues than Sherlock was. There was just one thing he needed to do first.

He stood up and walked across the room, each footstep firm and sure, until he was standing in front of Sherlock, feet shoulder-width apart, and planted his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, his fingers forming cages over the detective's ears. Perhaps not the most romantic stance for the reassuring, meaningful kiss he had been planning, but military habits died hard. Besides, it worked, in any case. The kiss was simple, innocent; more a way of communicating without speaking than it was a question of physicality. John should have known that even physical intimacy would be more mental than physical with Sherlock. He almost laughed when he pulled away, would have if Jim hadn't grabbed him by the elbow and thrown him, with shocking strength, onto the cement steps just outside the door.

The edge of the steps scraped a sizable part of his cheek and chin away and sent a stab of pain through his bad shoulder, but he started laughing anyway. Who wouldn't, at the sight of the untouchable Sherlock Holmes, standing just inside the doorway with a splitting grin on his face, looking as though he had been hit by lightening. The pure rage on Jim's face as he slammed the door put a final twist of humour on the scene.

It was almost a full minute before John could stand again, he was laughing so hard.

* * *

Sherlock grinned as he turned towards Jim.

"Jim," he whispered softly, running his fingers around Jim's ear and down, over his pulse.

"Sherl, really," Jim replied. His eyes were full of ice. "How could you stand to live with a total idiot for so long?"

"Well, you must remember Jim, I was in university - or I was supposed to be, at least."

Sherlock had wrapped his hand around Jim's throat and slammed the shorter man against the wall before he could react to the insult.

Funny how completely a few seconds could change things. Sherlock almost wanted to laugh.

* * *

John wasn't Sherlock, but he wasn't stupid enough to think that Moriarty was alone. Someone else was here (two someones, most likely; big enough and armed to incapacitate both Sherlock and John and keep Jim from having to get his hands dirty). He snuck carefully into the neighbour's yard and crawled along the ground, peeking through the fence slats. Juvenile, but effective. He noticed a shed in the backyard, with a door facing the house and a small window set into the door, providing a clear view into the house, through the kitchen cupboards and straight to the couch John had been handcuffed (sort of) to. The front door was also in their line of vision.

Perfect. John looped back around the house Jim and Sherlock were still inside, making sure to stay out of the narrow field of vision allowed by the small shed window, and finally made his way up to the small wooden shed itself. By the time he crouched outside the door, just below the window (they had removed the glass, how clever), his shoulder was effectively useless, his knees were shaking, and he had no idea what to do next. Plans had always been Sherlock's area, leaving John to charge in behind.

He didn't mind. It was a defensive position, his area, but now he a mission to get through.

Surprise, then. He would have to rely on surprise. He picked up a branch that had fallen on the lawn. It was weighty, heavy, but no match for a gun.

He looked into the living room from his position. It was a bit far to use handguns, especially considering that this was planned - they would have set up more precise guns. If John could knock one out quickly enough, it was possible that the other could be distracted enough to be taken out as well. He might not even have time to train his gun on John.

John took three deep breaths and threw the door open. A gun shot went off instantly.

* * *

Jim was on the floor, not dead (bastard should count his blessings), but certainly out for a solid few hours. It didn't matter. Jim didn't matter. All that mattered was finding John.

Sherlock almost threw up when he heard a gunshot from the back yard. John hadn't brought his gun.

* * *

John braced himself for impact, squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing happened. He opened his eyes.

The two men were out cold, lying on the floor with their hands zip-tied behind their backs, with their guns lying at their feet. One had gone off when John had thrown the door open, leaving the blonde assassin with a gunshot wound through his leg.

He hadn't moved since being shot. Maybe they weren't unconscious, maybe they were dead. How they had ended up that way remained a mystery.

At least, it would until John took his phone back and read the only text message he had missed.

_You're welcome. -MH_


	5. Chapter 5

_"It is so easy for me to love you that it frightens me. I've never been good at anything. But I've never wanted anything so much as I want to hold you every waking minute. And every night while I sleep. The question has ceased to be 'How will I ever love you?' and has become 'How would I ever stop?'" -E.C._

* * *

John was all alone.

Sherlock, that irritating git, had dragged him kicking and screaming to the hospital to have the scrapes on John's face treated. There was nothing the hospital staff could do except administer a tetanus shot of questionable necessity and slap on what amounted to little more than England's largest plaster. This left him sitting in the waiting room with a sore arm and a face wrapped in gauze. What's worse, he had to watch people with broken bones and wracking coughs take their turn after him. They should absolutely have gone before, but didn't due mainly to the fantastic tantrum his boyfriend had thrown before flouncing off god-knows-where and abandoning him at Saint Joseph's.

Hah - boyfriend. Somehow the term didn't fit Sherlock. Boyfriend was the word that got attached to people like John; John was a perpetual boyfriend. He could meet somebody new and two dates later, he was their boyfriend (three dates later, they had broken up). Sherlock would never be described that way. Sherlock was that guy you went out with once or twice, the one you bragged to your friends about afterwards. You told them all how he was smart and gorgeous and a fantastic fuck, but you never called him back and eventually you stopped talking about him, because you realized that he was so far apart from anything you could possibly have expected that you didn't even know where to start with him, and you certainly couldn't keep him.

Except apparently John could. The thought terrified him as much as it excited him. He stood up and took to meandering through the hospital corridors. Most of the doctors knew him, so he didn't run into any trouble so long as he didn't irritate anyone. John didn't irritate people - that was Sherlock's territory.

He stumbled across a large plastic box with bits of twisted metal sticking out and laughed out loud. It was old pieces from the MRI machine.

John laughed louder when he saw Sherlock's keys in the bottom of the box. He reached in carefully and picked them out.

* * *

"Siberia seems a little on the nose, doesn't it Sherlock?"

"Well, it was your damn idea. You'll recall my suggesting a more permanent solution."

"And I suggested a maximum security facility - in England."

"As though that will hold him."

"As though Siberia would."

"My solution looks better all the time."

"It does not. I'm sure John is finished at the hospital, and I can assure you that previous mistakes will not be repeated."

"How can you know? You have to be sure, Mycroft, you don't know, you have no idea, you can't-"

"Sherlock, I promise."

Mycroft had never seen anyone leave his office in such a huff.

* * *

"You lost him? You great bleeding idiots, what on earth do you do? Did they give you a colouring book instead of a job application? Is your resume filled out in crayon, as well?"

John smiled. Sherlock would certainly never be lost; all one had to do was follow the trail of hurt feelings. He made it back to the emergency ward in record time, where Sherlock was leaning over the counter, red in the face, and the girl working reception was almost in tears.

John put his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "I'm right here."

Sherlock jumped; John could only tell because he felt Sherlock's back tense and relax against his arm. He snarled out a few words about wandering off and how bloody stupid that was, but his anger had no heat left in it. John just smiled and dropped a kiss on his mouth; the simple, easy kind of kiss that pops up when people have been together for long enough to know the ins and outs of these simple little exchanges.

Even so, Sherlock had never before hailed a cab so quickly.

* * *

Cabs were stupid.

They were slow, they smelled bad, and cabbies simply did not know when to stop talking. What's more, the cab ride had sucked all the heat out of Sherlock's eyes and replaced it with a cold determination that made John nervous.

When they pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock deposited a handful of notes over the seat (a precise sum; it figures the clever git would have calculated the price long before arriving) and got all the way to the door before John pulled him back.

"I got you a present, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood a little straighter and narrowed his eyes. John laughed. "Go on, try to guess."

"A novel from the gift shop."

"You've got it!" John grinned. "Picked up a copy of _The Maverick's Summer Love_ - it's one of those lovely Harlequin paperbacks."

Sherlock looked as though he were about to be sick. "If you are not joking I will evict you from the flat tonight, injured or not."

John pretended to heave a disappointed sigh. "Very well, if you really don't want the book, I suppose I'll give you these instead." He held out the keys.

Sherlock took the keys with an odd mixture of amusement and embarrassment on his face, then turned and unlocked the door. "I'm not so sure I wouldn't prefer the book."

John just grinned as they climbed the stairs to their flat. When that door was unlocked, closed, and locked again, John slid his coat off his shoulders and looked at Sherlock.

"Honestly, Sherlock. Why did you give yourself an MRI scan?"

"Attempt."

"Pardon?"

"I attempted to give myself an MRI scan. As you may have gathered, I was rather shockingly unsuccessful."

"Fine. Why did you attempt to give yourself an MRI scan."

"That wasn't a question."

"Answer it anyway."

Sherlock didn't even smirk. He looked worried. "You don't really want to know, John."

John heaved a sigh as he decided what to do. It had worked so far, at least. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulled him into a kiss, angling him so his nose didn't hit the bandages on the side of John's face. It was deeper now, rougher, not as carefully thought out as the others were.

Not for an audience. For them.

Sherlock whined a little as John pulled back. "Now I really don't want to tell you."

"Please, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against John's, letting the tips of their noses brush together as he spoke. "I- John, I'm not good at this. Just look at me. I barely tolerate my brother, Lestrade keeps me around because he needs me. It's you, John, you think you like me, but I can't figure out why you would. It doesn't compute. People think I'm not fully human and I'm not so sure they're wrong." Sherlock's eyes drift closed. "I trying to find some sort of cure - I know that sounds stupid - and though I realize that alcohol and drugs are the recognized solutions, Mycroft made some quite - _potent_ - arguments against that course of action, so I had to resort to more creative solutions. I never intended to tell you anything."

Sherlock tensed as soon as he was done speaking. That had been much more than he had intended to share. How had John done that?

John just hummed, half pleased and half sad, and leaned in to undo the buttons on Sherlocks shirt. "I'm glad I found out anyway. I would never have believed that you, my mad, gorgeous, genius flatmate, would ever do something idiotic like falling in love with me."

Sherlock's head moved slowly from side to side. "John, how could I ever do anything else?"

It was a sight to see, clothing trailing from the door of the flat to the bedroom door. It looked almost as though Hansel and Gretal had run out of breadcrumbs.

* * *

_Bow-chica-wow-wow... epilogue to come. I'm not sure what everyone's looking for (smut? fluff? both? neither?) and I have a few different ideas for it, so if you could review and let me know what kind of content you'd like in the epilogue, that would be awesome! Otherwise it's up to me to decide, and you take your chances with that!_


	6. Epilouge

Sherlock wanted to catalogue everything, but there was so much and the smallest things were pulling at his brain, narrowing his focus down to the tiniest things and not letting it go.

There was the warm, slippery texture on his tongue when he kissed John, the subtle taste of pasta sauce and tea. The taste of salt on John's skin.

He could smell salt, too, hanging in the air under the smell of sweat and musk and breath and the tiny hint of chemicals from the lube. He could feel salt in the way his skin slid against John's, hitching and catching and making the slick, in-and-out slide of his cock that much more noticeable by contrast.

He could feel John's eyes on him, too. He shouldn't have be able to, but he could. He wanted to meet John's gaze, but he couldn't. Because he was wrapped around John and John was wrapped around him, and then he knew that John was looking up at him as though he were the best thing that could ever have happened to the world, and it's insane because obviously John is the best thing that could ever have happened to the world, and that he would even think to look at Sherlock that way is too much to even consider.

John was shaking underneath him, but Sherlock needed this to last.

* * *

Sherlock is so long. It's all John could think about.

The long arch of his spine that leads into his long neck, bent so that Sherlock could kiss John without breaking the rhythm he's created. His long legs only slightly bent, causing his long toes to tangle themselves into the sheets at the bottom of the bed in a search for grip. His long hair tickling John's nose. His long fingers encasing John's face.

Well, that last one is just too easy, isn't it?

And it was John this time who was being picked apart at the seams, torn, ripped, pulled, until he shook and cried and yelled things out (some expected: "Sherlock!" "Oh God!" "Fuck!" "I love you I love you I love you!", some utterly stupid: "Fingers!" "Ugghhhhh fucking open door, slam it open!"). The unfairness of the situation occurred briefly to John - it wasn't enough for Sherlock to have his heart, no, he had to go and snatch his mind away as well, as though his own mind could ever be considered insufficient - before Sherlock groaned loudly and stopped moving. He was tense, every one of those long muscles pulled in every direction, and he bit the inside of his cheek, just inside the corner of his mouth. John watched a trickle of blood run down between his bottom teeth, then leaned up and pressed his lips against Sherlock's; Sherlock didn't move, only made a muffled sound that was something between a sob and a name (Johhh-uhhh), then suddenly went limp and crashed down onto John, knocking the wind out of him and forcing his hips down rather painfully considering the delicate angle they had been (necessarily) maintaining. Perhaps Sherlock's length had some minor disadvantages, fast exits being one of them.

"Ouch, careful, you lanky git!" The words were supposed to come out half-forceful and half-teasing, but instead they had to force their way out of his chest, breathless and awed. Sherlock's only response was to huff a laugh.

They both waited, catching their breath (John having had his literally knocked out of him, Sherlock, only figuratively), until John pressed another kiss to Sherlock's mouth, which again failed to respond. John smiled up at him, still completely limp and breathless and gone. "I think you may need more practice with this kissing business. Let me up, I'll get a towel and clean us up."

A slight frown appeared on Sherlock's forehead. "I'd prefer the first one. The kissing one. Let's do that instead of you getting up."

John just smiled wider and pushed him off (too easily - should probably heat up something to eat. What time is it?) but dithered at the edge of the bed.

"The clock fell off the table. It's roughly 9:30. Why do you want to know the time?"

John kissed him (again) (already addicted) (should remember to buy chapstick). "Would you like something to eat?"

"Yes. You. Come back here."

"Something that's actually nutritious, Sherlock."

"Yes. You. Come back here."

John just laughed again and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "In a minute."

* * *

John is a liar. A terrible, filthy, pants-on-fire liar of the highest order.

He said he'd come back in a minute. It took him three minutes and sixteen seconds.

Sherlock was scowling at him when he got back. "That was three minutes."

John dropped two oranges onto the bed in front of him and started wiping his face with a warm, damp towel, working his way down his chest. "It wasn't my fault. I had to scrub the oranges. Someone stacked them with a pair of lungs, a liver, a skin sample and some rotting apples."

"Fruit flies are fascinating creatures, John."

"I'd still prefer them out of the flat. Here." He tossed one of the oranges to Sherlock. It smelled like vinegar (good disinfectant, but not appealing on oranges). Sherlock stared at it.

Pain suddenly shot through his eye. When he turned, he saw that John had dug his thumb into the peel of the orange, positioned precisely to send a spray of acid into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock dug his thumb into his orange, ready to retaliate, but only managed to catch himself in the face. John was beside himself with laughter. Sherlock tore his orange in half and dug out a segment to squeeze directly into John's hair.

John stopped laughing at once, then tore his own orange in half and dug his fingers into it, scooping out a fitful of pulp that he slapped directly onto Sherlock's forehead, letting the juice run down his nose and drip off his cheekbones. Sherlock returned the favour, before John leaned in to catch the juice dripping off of Sherlock's face with his tongue.

The towel didn't help. They fell asleep all kinds of sticky.

* * *

Sherlock's brain still wouldn't stop. It still climbed the walls, still turned itself inside out between cases, still shouted and screamed for something, anything, to fill it, keep it occupied.

Now his heart was the same, but it seemed to have found a never ending case. John.

Not that that made it any better. Any time John left the flat, failed to text back, went to watch the football game with Mike (whom Sherlock could never fully decide if he liked or hated; introduced him to John, also takes John away for bloody football), Sherlock's heart joined his brain in that restless animation.

Sometimes his heart and his brain fought, as his mind insisted that his heart was being irrational. More often they worked together, while Sherlock attempted to discern the minimum amount of time that should elapse before he could reasonably suggest going shopping for rings.

Those bloody studies were as useless as ever.

~END~


End file.
